


The Vorpal Blade

by auspicium (latenightfangirl)



Series: In Asking Riddles That Have No Answers [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-29 04:36:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15065252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latenightfangirl/pseuds/auspicium
Summary: And now the tale is done.





	1. Prima

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imperious Prima flashes forth  
> Her edict "to begin it"—

The sun was beaming merrily down, soft wisps of twirling particles and rich warmth. The plants ate it up greedily, leeching it from the air, lapping at the golden rays. Hattie sat amidst the plot of wildflowers, legs crossed and laurels in her lap, whilst she braided a verdant crown. Her attention was focused solely on the in-and-out weaving of the stems, of folding the leaves just so — she wanted it to be _perfect_.

“All in the golden afternoon,” she hummed, sloe eyes hooding. Her mouth quirked in a small smile as she completed the circlet. Hattie allowed it to rest atop her head, hands working to smooth her red hair. She gathered the tresses to one side, fingers combing lazily through her hair.

Her smile faded. Her eyes were dark, her smile gone, and she was kneeling in the grass and the wildflowers and the sunlight and —

“I hope this is fun,” she whispered, face devoid of anything and everything.

.

.

.

The Hogwarts Express was a lurid splash of color against the grey of the station. The life had been drained from the surroundings, leaving only a foul mimicry of what was once a wondrous place. The people, too, were exhausted of their usual vibrancy; their faces were worn with a bone deep tiredness — the kind spawned from long nights wrought with worry, of comfort wrenched from one’s hands.

Hattie found it dreadfully boring.

Despair was only interesting in sparse amounts — knocking someone to their knees, dangling hope in front of their eyes, and then letting the floor beneath them _collapse,_ and relishing in the utter _despair_ wrent from their chest as they fell and fell and _fell_ — _that_ was fun.

This, however, was not that. This was drowning, choking on a societies’ worth of _festering_ fear. Don’t misconstrue her words, though — Hattie enjoyed poking and prodding at corpses, investigating and understanding them. But she much preferred her corpses to be fresh, with the life still lingering upon them. To have her fingers dance across the last vestiges of life, the bits that clung to the unliving, the warmth in a cooling body — _that_ was invigorating.

She digressed. This method was not one she would use, and perhaps the root cause in why she found so little enjoyment in it. This was not her game — not completely — and therefore she found less satisfaction in watching it play out. A game was always so much more fun from the inside, was it not?

“Hattie,” Hermione greeted, a wan smile playing at her lips. “Did you get my letters? You never did respond…”

Hattie pulled her into an embrace, which startled her terribly, and pulled her into a twirl. “Of course,” she said. “But I hadn’t any time to reply, or really the will to — writing is so tedious, is it not?”

“Oh, Hattie,” Hermione sighed. “So you did read them then? And the… and the news? You’re not worried? As much as you are a slytherin, and don’t mind prancing around with purebloods —,” she stopped herself, the blood draining from her face as she twisted her head around. “My point is, aren’t you worried about… _you-know-who?_ ”

The whisper did not deter her, and Hattie responded casually, “Well, no, not really. There’s not much to worry about in my life, being completely honest, and I find that I’m more excited than anything: something big is going to happen soon, can you not feel it?”

Hermione’s expression shuttered, momentarily closing herself off — then bloomed with anger. “Do you not care about anything but yourself?” she hissed. “Fun this, fun that — don’t you see that others are being affected by this, _I’m_ being affected by this? I’m a — I’m a _mudblood,_ Hattie, and my parents are _muggles_ — don’t you think you can feel some sort of compassion for us?”

A few passerbys turned their heads to look, eavesdropping quite _impolitely,_ and Hattie plastered on a soft, reassuring smile. “I haven’t any need to worry, Hermione,” she said, “because there is no need. Nothing will happen to you, or your family, or anyone you deem a friend. In fact, I would suggest you do not worry at all, because those affected by the coming events will only be those perfectly deserving. And do not misconstrue my words — I am neither on the side of purebloods or muggleborn, I am on the side of myself, and all will work out in the conclusion.”

Hermione, certain that this would not be the last time she spoke these words, asked, “And what does that mean?”

“It means you should enjoy your year at Hogwarts as I will be doing.”

Hattie smiled.

(Her cheeks were beginning to hurt.)

.

.

.

The sorting began and ended, the feast was laid out, and yet nothing went quite right: there was no buzz of excitement, the thrill of energy lacing the air, the chatter of students and professors echoing throughout the Great Hall. None of it was going as it should, as attested by the somber atmosphere that hung over everyone’s heads like the dreadful, ever-waiting reminder of the end. Hattie neither liked or disliked it, finding instead that there was some strange, inexplicable feeling lingering on her mind instead. It was something she couldn’t quite put, just as Hogwarts was not quite Hogwarts, and the sorting had not been the sorting.

More than a few of the Slytherins had shot her weighted glances, heavy with accusations and interpretations and other nonconsequential things. Hattie ignored them, finding familiarity in the act and some odd enjoyment in that. It was a very odd day when Hattie enjoyed the familiar, and she was finding it to be a very odd day, or night as it was.

And yet there was something off, and she could not place it.

“Hattie?” murmured Draco, attempting to garner her attention.

“Not now,” she replied, waving him off. “I’m trying to place just what is off.”

There was a moment of silence, blissful, well-earned silence, and then the return of quiet that wasn’t actually quiet, but laden with potent emotions and thoughts and _oh,_ she wished they would stop that so she could focus.

“It is a lot quieter,” said Draco. “And… a lot is different from last year. Have you… Have you checked the Prophet, yet?”

“Goodness, Draco, yes I’ve both seen and read the Prophet, I know that Voldemort is back, I know that there is violence and chaos and everything else going on and but that’s not what I’m talking about!”

There was a prickling beneath the surface of her skin. It as irritating in a way she didn’t quite recognize, that she hadn’t felt in some time, or perhaps ever. It was familiar, though, in that sort of way that meant you knew, distantly, what it was or what caused it. And then it clicked — the anxiousness, the tugging sensation — it was time.

“Excuse my outburst,” she said. “I’ve a contract to be fulfilled and it’s nearing its culmination. How long now?” she continued, primarily to herself. “A month? No — a week?”

A gleam entered her eyes, fanatic and misplaced in their dark depths.

_“A day.”_

.

.

.

It was the cusp before dawn, the darkest hour. Hattie walked, unnoticed and unhurried, down the halls of Hogwarts, leading to the place and item she sought.

“Oh, do you sleepwalk too?” asked a girl, bright-eyed and tiny, more pixie than girl. “Though I suppose it’s more apt to say that I sleepwalk then wakewalk, because I tend to wake up mid-journey and continue on anyway.”

“Hello, Luna Lovegood,” Hattie said, eyes impossibly wide, mirrored in too-big blue eyes, similar and yet altogether two vastly different things. “Tonight I neither sleepwalk nor wakewalk, but chase the end of all things. I find myself impatient, in spite of everything,” she confided, pausing in her pursuit.

“Oh,” said Luna. “I find that impatience makes the conclusion all the more exciting, but also more likely to blow up in your face. It happened to my mum, you know.”

“I know.” A pause. “I know. Luna Lovegood, I have a question for you: Do you think that the mind and the soul are two different things, or one and the same?”

“Different or separate? Because I think those are two very different words, but not at all separate. Though to answer your question, I think that that the soul and mind are connected, but not one thing pretending to be two. In fact, I think the mind is the soul, but not just the soul. Everything has a bit of a soul in them, don’t they? Except nargles, of course, those exist because of others’ souls, not their own. Or does that make others’ souls their souls? Shared souls?”

Hattie patted her head, stopping the rapidly devolving speech. “Oh, dear girl, you’ve too much sight and not enough eyes.”

Luna blinked. “I think I have just the right amount of eyes. Unless you’re saying that humans are supposed to have more than two, and we’ve all been fooled into believing otherwise?”

Barking a laugh, Hattie said, “Oh, it’s all too fun to talk with you! Perhaps I should have joined Ravenclaw — riddles are all too fun, too fun indeed! But I’m afraid I must cut our conversation short; I’ve places to be and heirlooms to be retrieving. You know, family obligations and that rot.” She received a surprisingly solemn nod to that, and smiled indulgently. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, _Luna Lovegood._ ”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.”

.

.

.

The headmaster’s office was surprisingly empty, or perhaps not so much: Hattie entered without difficulty or preamble, passing the gargoyles and ascending the stairs, opening the door and reaching her destination. The sorting hat sat on Dumbledore’s desk, brim sealed tight and for all intents and purposes, in stasis for the next sorting ceremony. Hattie payed this no mind.

The portraits were whispering to each other, convening at one corner, a few brazen ones calling out to her. Hattie payed this no mind.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, on her mind right now besides that niggling, infuriating, _exciting_ feeling, right there on the forefront of her mind — the unerring certainty that _this was it,_ here it was, it’s time it’s time _it’s time_.

She reached into the hat.

Her fingers brushed cool metal, clasping around the hilt, Gryffindor’s sword heavy with promise and _fate,_ with an eons’ old _oath._

Hattie grinned: teeth and something — everything — sharp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few things first: It's been a long time since I messed with this story (six months; lovely) and I'm a bit out of touch with the characters/plotline. This chapter is unedited and... probably not the best it could be, but I want to focus on finishing the next two chapters before I edit/rewrite this one. If I do. That brings me to my next point: I've lost most of my passion for this fic - for many reasons - and if I ever fix it up/rewrite it, it won't be any time soon. I've other stories I'm focusing on at the moment and this one has been... a long and wild ride. Really. There's quite a few plot holes in this fic that I'm only noticing now, my writing style has progressed since I started this (last June?) and I'm really not liking the way this whole story is laid out anymore. 
> 
> The stories I'm working on currently have more character building and conflict in them, and well, I think this story (as a whole) could have been better. I'm not saying I don't like this story anymore, though, or that I'll delete it! Instead I'm saying that I can see where it could be better and that it's been amazing for helping me grow as a writer. And the fans! My sweet, sweet fans. I love all of you. You have no idea how many times I've seen email notifications of kudos, bookmarks, and comments (comments!) and just... felt amazing. They pushed me through dark times, as cheesy as that sounds. Seriously, I love you all. 
> 
> Now, the next two chapters... the last two chapters - I hope they don't seem sudden or like a curve ball. The ending to this story is one I've had planned since the beginning, and I hope I've built it up enough (but not so much that it's obvious, though I doubt that). Anywho (anyhoo? heck if I know) I hope you enjoyed this chapter (it took me... six months... six months...) and will enjoy the next two. I can't promise an exact date, but Mars is in retrograde so it's a great time to finish things that you've left on the back-burner for too long. Like this fic. In short, I'm hoping to get this finished before the middle of July, because I'm taking the ACT again around then and I need to study for a good bit of July. So, I'll try and finish them this week if at all possible and have them posted before mid-July. Thank you all for being patient so very, very much.
> 
> (Hattie says hi, and that you're all in for a _very_ fun treat, wink wink)


	2. Seconda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In gentler tones Secunda hopes  
> "There will be nonsense in it!"—

It began with a vow.

Or perhaps it began with the memory of a vow: carried down two lines, both forgetting with time, and yet inexplicably _remaining,_ remembered with the beginning of the end.

There was a vow, and it went as such:

“Arcturus,” greeted Hattie.

“Hattie Peverell,” he returned, face severe. His eyes wandered to sword held loosely at her side. “You… found it.”

“Of course. There was no doubt that I would.” Her head cocked. “Except maybe yours. Why, pray tell, are you still unnerved by me? I’m going to fulfill my end, my line’s end, and yet.” She didn’t shake her head, but that might’ve been preferred to her unerring stare.

“You’re unnatural.” A muscle twitched along his jaw, his eyes hardening. “You’re not a child. You’re not… what I, or any of _my_ line expected.”

She shrugged carelessly, an easy roll of her shoulders. “It’s what I do best, destroying expectations, throwing in a bit of chaos here and there. It’s fun, I suppose, or as fun as I can manage to feel.”

“You’re never this honest. Or rather, I should say loose-lipped.”

“And I don’t often put up pretenses with you either, do I? To be completely honest, and I usually am I’ll let you know (unless I’m causing a bit of mischief, but that’s rather unimportant at the moment) I’m tasting the end. It’s an interesting flavor, I’ll tell you.”

“Tasting —? Nevermind, I’d rather not know,” he said, bringing a hand over his face. “The end, huh? So it’s soon, then?”

“Shouldn’t you be able to tell?”

He cast her a sharp glance. “That’s _unimportant,_ is it not? But no, I can’t. I believe that’s just you, Hattie Peverell, Heir of Gryffindor.”

She smiled.

“That I am, and I am, therefore I think.”

“That’s backwards, but there’s no use telling you that,” he sighed. “You’re not an eleven year old.”

“I’m not,” she agreed. “I’m twelve.”

“Merlin’s bloody — You know what I mean!”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. That’s not part of our _vow,_ is it?”

Arcturus slammed a hand down onto the table, sending an echo of a rattle through the room. “What are you?” he demanded. “What are you, really? This _is_ connected to the vow. You’re not human — you can’t be. And if you’re not human, then you’re not Gryffindor’s heir, and you cannot carry out his legacy. You cannot kill _her_ if —!”

“Stop.”

And so he did.

“I am Hattie Peverell, Henrietta Potter, Euclid, Heir of Gryffindor — those are names, titles, bloodlines. Expectations, fates, masks, personas… I am those, even if I am not. No, let me finish — this, whatever this is, everything _this is,_ is equally in part due to her actions, the vow’s existence, my existence, and the whims of Fate. I am who I am, I am what I am. I am not a child, maybe, and neither am I any of those names, maybe. And yet I _am_ them all the same, because that is the end of things.”

“That’s not an answer.” He grit his teeth, clenching his fists. “You are the heir, but also not? You’re just finding the easy way out of giving me an ultimatum. Can I not depend on you to follow through with the deal, then?”

“You know very well that that’s a stupid insinuation. What have we been doing all this time, then, if not working towards this final play? The creation of Quintessence, the distribution of the stater, locating _her_ and the _sword,_ ” she swung it for good measure, “do you think that all for nothing? No, and you know it, you _know it._ Things are already underway, there is no stopping the _end_ now.”

“You’re saying it’s already begun?” There was fear, certainly, and a hint of gleeful hope in his expression. “And why, Merlin, do you keep referring to it as the _end,_ you’ve never —?”

“It just is,” stated Hattie, harshly. “I know it, and if you do not, then it is not yours to know. The end will come, as it must, and it is already —”

“Don’t you dare bloody be insinuating that you can’t — that she — that _the world is going to fucking end_ because of this, because Hattie, I’ll —”

_“Arcturus Weasley.”_

Silence.

“The end is inevitable. Her return is inevitable. The result is not a direct causation of her return, but an indirect, predetermined one. The end is —” Hattie struggled for words, finding the space between her mind and her soul gradually lessening, the already barely there divide encroaching on nil, “— the end.” And Hattie became something other than Hattie, for but a moment, when she said but didn’t say: “You know it, you will experience it, just as I have and always will, and it will be no different from beginning and existing — as all things in their final form are one.”

“… You will carry out the legacy.”

“I will.”

“You will… you are…” He paused. “Accepting a definite answer on whether you are or aren’t the Heir, if you are Hattie Peverell, will change something, I’m certain. Perhaps by remaining between them all, you remain them all — and picking one over the others, or none at all, would… I’m not sure.”

“You’re on the right track,” said Hattie. “Things are changing. It’s unavoidable, and yet I find myself wanting to linger… But then I remember the end, and how it must always come, and I realize that perhaps it has already happened in some way or another, and how even the most ephemeral of experiences is eternal.”

“I don’t like philosophy,” said Arcturus, conjuring a cloak, two opposite facing dragons emblazoned on it. “I hate it, actually.”

“So do I,” said Hattie. “I am only stating what I know, though, and if that in itself is a philosophy, then it can’t be helped.”

“Yes it can,” he replied, side eyeing her. “You could just stop talking.”

Hattie sighed dramatically. “But I do so very much enjoy it!”

“Have I ever told you you’re remarkably like Albus Dumbledore?”

“No,” she said, almost surprised, “but I wouldn’t go saying that where others can hear you. A certain Dark Lord would gladly like to argue on that.”

Arcturus wrung his face, looking older than he really was. “Good Godric, where did your genes go? What did your descendants do to produce this monstrosity?”

“I think they may have done _someone_ named Iolanthe Peverell, though I wasn’t there when it happened, thankfully. That’s a story for another time though, Arcturus. My eccentricities can remain just that for the time being.”

“I get the feeling ‘the time being’ will never end.”

Hattie brightened. “Now you’re getting it! Maybe it’s _not_ just me, but only those looking.” Wistfully, she recalled another conversation that edged nearly too close to the truth. “Anyhoo, what I came here to tell you: the Morrigan will be returned by morn.”

She had hoped he would drop his wand in shock.

“Bloody — Bloody hell. When were you planning to tell me this?”

“Just now, in fact. Should I say it again? The Morrigan will be returned by morn — and oh, it will be partly my doing. I don’t think she will, otherwise, but, hm. Yes, there are enough stater passed about that it should work, even if it’s a bit lower than I hoped. Those leaves…”

“You’re certain it will work?”

“Goodness, Arcturus! Are you _worried?_ Nevermind that, you obviously are. Don’t; everything will go splendidly. The end is nigh, and though I’ve said it enough to likely call it on us now, it won’t occur until the vow is completed. I will do as promised to Arthur Pendragon: I will slay the second coming of Morgan le Fay, as the last of the Gryffindor Line.”

“How very formal,” he muttered. “This entire situation is a mess — I’m not even the eldest, and Arthur…”

“Arthur Weasley is unaware, and I, as you so put it, a monstrosity.”

“Fine. The details of the legacy are all but ignored at this point, so it needn’t matter if I’m the eldest, if my name is Arcturus or Arthur, and if you are… human.”

“As much as you like to think otherwise, I am in fact a human,” Hattie said.

“I’ll believe that when the evidence states otherwise,” he rebutted. “You’re more Death than human.” Swishing his wand, Arcturus dropped his bag onto the table, gathering the supplies in its expanded interior. When Hattie remained ever silent, he said, “Hattie?”

_“‘Tis the wind,”_ she replied.

_“And nothing more.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yello people. I wanted to post this chapter tomorrow but I wasn't feeling it, so you're getting it today. The last chappie is done too. I feel like they're a bit rough but good nonetheless. So I hope you guys like them. Um, if any of you are subscribed to me, you might've received an email about a new work? Yeah I accidentally posted a draft and completely freaked. I'm going to be posting that fic after this one is done (new and totally different series) so yeah...
> 
> I was so overjoyed to read your comments last chapter. I wanted to reply to some of them, but I recently saw another author saying how they preferred not to reply because it mucks up the comment count. Just so you guys know: I appreciate every comment and save them each in a specific, probably kinda dorky, folder in my mailbox. And yes, I do go back to reread them for that warm feeling in my chest they give me. Heh.
> 
> ((also I hope this chapter made sense; I've been dealing with some crappy insomnia for the past week or so and I'm running on sheer determination and caffeine. Lot's of caffeine. I also don't remember the exact happenings of previous chapters due to my long hiatus so there's that too))


	3. Tertia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Tertia interrupts the tale  
> Not more than once a minute.

_ “Deep within a silent place,” _ rang out, cutting through the still air, “the birth of life is stirred.” Hattie placed her hand over the bark of the elder tree. It thrummed with an indefinable, inexact magic: tremors ran through the bark, echoing and bouncing back, never dissipating. Her hand dropped. Picking up her axe, she raised it and swung — one clamorous clash of her blade against the trunk. 

_ “Secrets held within the dark,” _ she spoke, chillingly, without break or sign of exertion, as she brought her axe down again on the tree. It clanged, hitting with a booming echo, but no creature startled; not one bird scattered. Arcturus was somewhere, certainly, but nowhere within her awareness. A murder of crows landed, seven,  _ for a secret never to be told, _ and then three more:  _ for a girl, for a bird you must not miss. _

_“… speaks the magic bird.”_  
  
She chopped, thought, pondered on the leaves she scattered, soaking up the magic of hundreds of wizards and witches and members of Quintessence. The stater were important, near invaluable to this expenditure, and losing any one of them could disrupt the ritual.

Hattie delighted dearly in their suffering when they misused her stater. They were important, after all. 

_ “Death to Life the soul is told,” _ she chanted, the beat of the axe, the ringing shiver of the tree, the crack of wood beneath silver,  _ “feel the womb so pure.” _

Beneath her blows, a crack formed: it was unnatural, split down the middle, practically ignoring the direction of her swings. Blood spurted from it, rolling down the trunk in viscous rivulets. 

_ “Oracles reveal the Truth —” _ a swing, a hit, more blood. The clouds accumulating, gathering above her head with a grey threat. Magic sizzled in the air, shimmering like a mirage over a desert, coagulating like condensation, growing heavier, darker,  _ alive _ . “ _ New Life will surely birth.” _

The elder tree split directly down the middle with an air-splitting crack, and perhaps a bolt of lightning — Hattie had no eyes for the sky at this moment, no, not anywhere but the woman birthed from inside, the perfect halves of the tree pulsating like flesh.

She was otherworldly, tall, well-endowed, and healthily stocky. Her hair was an ash-black crow’s nest, mussed up like unkempt feathers. Her eyes were closed, but her cheekbones high and moonlight pale, deathly so. This was the Morrigan — Morgan le Fay.

The half-sister of Arthur Pendragon, and the one he sought to kill at all costs.

Hattie hummed approvingly, inspecting the freshly birthed woman even as two sharp pops wrent the air —  _ a storm was amassing —  _ and the new presences made themselves known.

“Henrietta Potter,” announced Dumbledore, his mouth set in a grim line. “I should have known. But I doubt anyone could have expected this.”

Voldemort, his robes whipping in the harsh gale, spared not but a lingering, weighted glance at Dumbledore before turning to Hattie, and subsequently, Morgan le Fay. The witch was still breathing, the tree no longer pulsing but rotting — the elder returned to the earth from whence it came, leaving two lines of ashen ground. 

A raven cried. 

_ “‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! — Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!’” _

“‘Quoth the Raven,’” Voldemort returned, “‘Nevermore.’”

“There is no balm in Gilead,” said Hattie. “There is no hope; there is no more. We are at the End, and I have made my plays — tell me, either of you, both of you, do you know whom before you stand?”

“Henrietta,” implored Dumbledore. “There is no need for this impetuosity. You can return to Hogwarts still; you can command your own fate.”

“I have never been a fatalist, Dumbledore.” She gave a minute shake of her head, the movement but a mere twitch, barely anything at all. “There are things that must be done: they are never exact, never dependent on the details or the who’s or the why’s. They just are, and will exist, in whatever form they are given. This is the way it is supposed to go, or as close to it as it can be, and going about it any other which way only prolongs the eventual conclusion.”

She turned to face the Morrigan.

“I am —”

Was this excitement? Was this joy, impatience, anxiousness?

“I am ready.”

This was what she felt:

Since the beginning of life, since the birth of her awareness, Hattie had experienced emptiness — felt it, drowned in it, basked in it — and yet perhaps it had not been emptiness at all, but acceptance.

Or perhaps that was mere conjecture; a philosophy.

Morgan le Fay opened her eyes.

_ “Hattie! Kill her now!” _

Arcturus’ shout was drowned out on the wind, but Hattie heard it nonetheless — and yet did not act on it. There was more to be unveiled here, now, in this final act — and she would see it, hear it, experience it. One could only ever truly appreciate the present, after all, was when it was all coming down.

Le Fay’s voice was gravelly, a deep timber, but enthralling all the same; it was much like Hattie’s in that manner. 

“It has been… many years… since I last walked upon this earth,” she said, taking a step forward. The ravens scattered with a chorus of hoarse caws, their flapping wings blotting out the sight of the pale, naked figure of le Fay. They vanished, and with their departure, a black robe appeared upon le Fay where there had been none.

“Morgan le Fay,” said Hattie. “You have achieved what you set out to do: you have slept nearly a millennium, and have reawaken, your body and your mind and your soul as one. That is what you did, is it not? Sacrificed your individuality for something more ancient, more godlike than mortal. Some would call you a monstrosity.”

There was silence amongst the gathering, save for the howling of the wind, the crack of thunder in the background.

Le Fay’s eyes fell on Hattie, and it was a steep distance: the woman was more than two meters in height, towering above each and every one of them A gust of wind whipped her hair up, her expression unchanging; it lay somewhere between the fine line of weary and anguished, the two emotions nigh inseparable. Though Hattie found it hard to decipher, she nearly felt a connection to it.

“Indeed,” she said. Then, as though snapping out of a trance, she settled into a more recognizable expression: determination. “I will not be brought down again,” she informed, her voice carrying — perhaps all of the Isle of Man could hear her resolution. “I have remained idle too long; the Morrigan returns, and in turn, a new era of magic.”

Voldemort and Dumbledore raised their wands, or perhaps simply brought attention to the fact they were raised; the storm impeded everyone’s sight, and Arcturus was undetectable within it. Le Fay was a beacon in the tempest, however, as all eyes could do nothing but fall upon her form.

“In my time,” she said, eyes sweeping over the lot of them, the lands, the storm, “there was inequity. Hatred ran rampant amongst witches and men, wizards and their own: war was a constant, a part of life, a means to an end. Yet I, in the midst of this chaos, found the eye of the storm, the salvation of the repressed — with my power, my sway, I could change everything.”

They were spellbound, left vulnerable at her words, chasing the very meaning behind her speech as though it was all they could do. This was a woman, a witch, a being that had transcended mortality. 

“My brother was without magic. Our father had bedded a witch, unknowingly, and spawned me: I was despised and wished ill for. I was bane on the Pendragon line. But then Arthur was born to a woman, praised and regaled, foretold of great things. I was cast aside… a shadow to his light.

“Yet I found my place, my fate, my own path to greatness: I mastered my powers, learned and discovered,  _ uncovered…  _ Yes, I mutilated myself to achieve my goals, but it was not without purpose — they sought to kill me, to put an end to my reign before it began. I ensured that I would return, and return I have — a millennium has passed and I will now see them through: the dark will not be cast aside any longer.”

Dumbledore appeared stricken, his wand held firmly, perhaps shaking ever so slightly. Voldemort stood stock still, his eyes burning with interest, excitement, anger. Hattie spared them no glance.

“You know,“ she said, nigh conversationally, a lilt painting her voice with unfitting brightness, “I really admire you. Your speech was riveting, really, and I do agree — many aspects of dark magic have been repressed without much consideration. Your power, your mind, your very  _ existence…  _ it’s exquisite.” A smile like blood and bone and something — everything, really — sharp. “And that’s why I have to kill you.”

In a clean, cutting sweep, she beheaded Morgan le Fay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the series... Arcturus is the name of Arthur Weasley's father, who was a Black, and since both of Arthur's brothers are unnamed I decided to just make my own headcanon of it. The first poem Hattie recites is the elderberry tree poem by Katherine Torres, and the other one is obviously the Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. "is there balm in Gilead?" can be interpreted as the narrator asking if there is still hope [for the future]. Or at least, that's one way of interpreting it? As much as I love poetry, I'm terrible at interpreting. If there's more I forgot to explain/cover I'll add it in an edit. Thank you!


	4. Bloopers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Am I a terrible person for adding these? They were so fun to write...

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“Hattie, now that Dumbledore is gone and le Fay — and don’t you dare for a minute think that I’m not aware you were behind this all, someway or another — is dead, I need to speak with you about —” Voldemort cut himself off, looking at her with narrowed eyes, his brow twitching. “Hattie.”

“Yes?”

“Where is my locket?”

Hattie gave him an affronted look, one hand over her chest. “ _ Your  _ locket? I thought you gifted him to me, out of the kindness of your heart?”

_ “Where is Slytherin’s Locket and what have you done with it.” _

Putting one finger to her bottom lip, Hattie looked up, Voldemort positively fuming in her peripheral. “Oh,” she said. “Well. If you’re wanting it back, we’re going to have a slight problem.”

_ “Hattie.” _

“I ate the locket.”

_ “YOU ATE MY BLOODY HORCRUX —!” _

_. _

_. _

_. _

“Hattie?” 

“What is it, Arcturus?” 

“Didn’t you mention acquiring a snake?”

“Oh? Hmm, yes.”

“And where is he right now?”

Hattie blinked. “Yes, that. He’s out of hibernation now, so I assume he’s probably off somewhere important, carrying out missions I have tasked him with.”

“… Probably?”

“He’s a bit of a free spirit, you could say.”

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Somewhere utterly unimportant, Molly Weasley dropped her ladle, rushing up the stairs of her home with all the speed she could manage, whipping her out her wand, heart racing. 

“Ron? Ronald?”

_ “MUM!” _

“Oh Merlin, sweetie, why are you screaming?”

_ “THERE—THERE’S A SNAKE IN MY BED—! NO, NO WAIT MUM DON’T VANISH IT — OH BLOODY HELL HATTIE WOULD  _ KILL ME  _ IF YOU DID…” _

Over the boisterous laughter of the twins, Ginny shouted, “SHUT YOUR BLOODY MOUTH RON BEFORE I KILL YOU FIRST!”

“NO MORE YELLING IN THIS HOUSEHOLD OR YOU’RE ALL GOING TO BE DE-GNOMING THE GARDEN FOR THE REST OF THE SUMMER!”

_ “MUM!” _

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“So,” said Dumbledore. “We’re all here today for what again, everyone?”

“Chaos counselling and emotional rehabilitation,” chorused a very unenthusiastic Hattie, Voldemort, Diary Horcrux Tom Riddle, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, and Luna Lovegood. 

“Why am I even here?” whispered Tom, rubbing circles into temples. “I didn’t even make an appearance in this story.”

Dumbledore either didn’t hear his mutterings or ignored them. Tom correctly assumed that it was the latter. “Yes, Luna?” said Dumbledore, waving his hand to Luna, who had hers raised.

“Does chaos counselling mean we’ll be counselled in a chaotic fashion?”

“No, dear, it means you’ve all wrought too much chaos on our world and must be stopped.”

“‘Must be stopped,’ he says,” said George.

“‘Too much chaos,’” tisked Fred, shaking his head.

“There can never be too much chaos,” Luna added wisely, nodding her head. 

“That’s the idea!”

“Now, now, settle down… That is not the only reason for our session. Hattie, Tom, other Tom, I believe you each have an issue when it comes to emotional responses. Hattie, would you like to go first?”

“Certainly,” she responded. “When I was a child, I found myself combatting something you might call existential despair, but I rather liken it to… debilitating emptiness, I suppose, every moment of the day and night. Eventually I found a way to push it down to a manageable apathy — but I’ll get to how later. I never have been able to achieve the full spectrum of emotions, but I am able to mimic them quite well, if I do say myself. So well, in fact, that I sometimes think I feel a flicker of something  _ emotional!  _ Isn’t that astounding?”

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. “You’re making great progress, Henrietta. You may take one of my lemon drops as a reward.”

Hattie shook her head. “No, I mustn’t. My tale isn’t finished. Through experimentation and a nudge in the right direction by the ONE WHO RULES US ALL, I was able to find a cure for the VOID.”

“… And that was?”

“Why, cutting up animals, of course.”

“And I thought I was the only one,” muttered Tom, giving Hattie a glance over. She winked at him and he shuddered. Twelve year olds were  _ not  _ supposed to wink flirtatiously; it was a horrible sight all around. 

“… Tom — pardon me, not you Tom, but other Tom — you’ve been awfully quiet so far. Do you have anything you wish to add?”

_ “Honk.” _

Hattie blinked. “That’s a side effect of his new body. When he sleeps or enters a meditative state, his body will mimic the functions of its previous form… And I may have made it from the carcass of a goose.”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so, yes. I recently reread Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus so these last few chapters have been inspired by that? Yeah. I hope these were funny - they were certainly funny to write and imagine.
> 
> ((I also wanted to reach 60K+ words on the series... hehe))


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